


In Vastness there is Solitude

by platonicdust



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Canon Asexual Character, Cows, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I wanted to add more cow time but the fic didnt allow, Internalized Homophobia, Jons an ass at the beginning in true canon fashion, Lighthouses, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Tea as a plot device, actually talking out your feelings, allusions to sensory overload, and dissociation, lighthouse keeper jon and martin, the inherent intimacy of saying your lovers name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicdust/pseuds/platonicdust
Summary: “Were you worried?”Jon sighs deeply in irritation. “Of course I was.”“Me too.” He says it softly and Jon’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to hear it. But they’re not outside, their words don’t get lost between the screaming wind and crashing of the waves. The words are trapped within the cabin, closed and contained with nowhere to go but to bounce from wall to wall. Martin looks at him again. “I get worried about you, too.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 50
Kudos: 273





	In Vastness there is Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something for the magnus archives since I finished season one but I finally finished it not long ago and here I am. I don't think I can fully describe how much this podcast means to me in terms of character representation and the nuance that went into creating the story but it definitely impacted me a lot. I guess I'll just have to keep writing fics for it until the fifth season drops.  
> Anyway, this was heavily inspired by the lighthouse which came out last year. If you haven't seen the film already and are looking for some surreal psychological horror, I'd highly recommend it.  
> (please excuse the awful poetry. in my defence it took me like a minute to come up with and Martin's supposed to be an amateur anyway.)  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

There’s a thick fog that always seems to cover the sea this close to a lighthouse. It’s as though the ocean herself can sense the light so close by and uses the mist above the water to hide, though Jon is sure the ocean isn’t scared of the piercing light the way people are of the dark. A mass of water that large; the light can only penetrate the surface and what lies under the sea can surely never be fully discovered or unearthed. There’s far too much water that covers the earth and he can’t quite believe people so conceited as to think they can understand all that life that lies hidden within the depths. The stories of new and exciting expeditions written on the covers of the daily papers can only lead to devastation, should they explore what is better left uncharted.

The island would be in view this close had the fog not spread so thick around the ship it’s as though Jon can open his mouth and taste it. He loves the coastal air, the solitude being head keeper allows, though he isn’t fond of the sea spray the way sailors are. Jon much prefers his feet on land, but he’s long since grown used to being aboard ships, having been employed in the job for most of his working life and taking leave only once a week each year to restock on supplies from the mainland. For as long as lighthouses have been in use, there have been stories and superstitions that follow. There’s something about all that vastness between society and the keepers – something about the solitude and loneliness – that lends itself well to a ghost story. There are hundreds of myths detailing haunted shipwrecks close to shore and dead sailor’s spirits tormenting keepers, driving them to the brink of insanity. Jon doesn’t believe in such tales but that descent into madness, he thinks, is entirely all too plausible. He’s had not a few hands who clearly lost some part of themselves during their stay.

Jon has had experiences with a variety of people over the years; some looking for a new start and others enticed by the promise of good pay. The job is certainly a good way to save money; one has no chance to spend it on the island, leaving a sizeable wage waiting for them upon their return.

If Jon has to guess, Mr. Blackwood is in the former category. He exudes a sense of loneliness which Jon thinks odd. Mr. Blackwood is a nervous man, what with his incessant fidgeting and lack of direct eye contact, but he’s seems jovial enough, amicable towards the crew. Jon has known the man a mere few hours and has already noticed seemingly all his nervous ticks: how his ears and nose go red first, even in the relative warmth of the cabin below deck, or the slight chuckle he gives in an awkward situation before rubbing the back of his neck. Jon has taken an immediate dislike to the man, though he isn’t sure if it’s from his cheery exterior or the sheer incompetence that Jon has witnessed thus far.

Mr. Blackwood has tried to strike up conversations on a number of occasions before Jon has promptly shut them down with a curt nod. Jon is well aware of how he looks – face worn and weathered from the rough winds and scars from one too many close calls. He’s often been told by the few acquaintances he has that a simple smile or engagement in small talk would help enormously to make him more approachable. But he doesn’t quite see the point, not when he’s been isolated from others most his life, even before he had taken over from the previous keeper.

When he looks at Mr. Blackwood, he’s met with the sight of soft, freckled skin. But the man’s becoming appearance is more suited to an actor rather than someone Jon is supposed to trust with his life. A handsome face means nothing surrounded by the cruel sea and her battering winds.

Jon wonders, on more than one occasion since boarding the boat, how exactly Mr. Blackwood was given the position; surely there had been other applications. He doesn’t think the job so undesirable that there would be no other applicant better suited for the position. But Mr. Blackwood will be there only a year, if he can stick it out. Jon clutches onto that hope that the man will make it a month before begging to leave the godforsaken island. And when that time comes, Jon will be all too happy to allow it.

He’s getting older. Not so old that he can’t carry out his duties well enough but certainly alive for long enough that a year doesn’t feel all that long. And as long as the man learns to leave Jon be and carries out his duties competently enough, the year shouldn’t be too insufferable. Jon has long since understood not to pin his own satisfaction on others; he’s dealt with his share of both inept and proud hands; surely Mr. Blackwood can be no worse.

The docking on the shore sends a shudder through the boat. Mr. Blackwood inhales in awe beside him, clutching at the rails. Jon feels a proud smile tug at his lips. He understands that wonder upon first seeing the island up close, and though the sea around it is unforgiving and the work, rough, there is some part of Jon that is tethered to its rocky landscape.

Captain Lukas appears next to them, dropping their luggage by their feet: Jon’s small case and Mr. Blackwood’s two, larger ones. Jon thanks him passively, though he itches to get off the boat, onto dry land. The boat trips are unpleasant at best, especially with Mr. Lukas as the assigned captain. There’s something decidedly off about him, though Jon can’t quite place what exactly it is. Beside them both, he chuckles, lighting up a pipe and offering one to both men. Neither accept.

“Good luck out there, boys. It’s s’posed to be a rough winter, this one. Though I may be seeing yer sooner than that, lad.” He motions to Mr. Blackwood who splutters indignantly.

“With all due respect, Captain Lukas, I’m not a boy. I can sure take care of myself.”

“It wasn’t an accusation, boy. ‘Twas merely stating: the winters are always rough so far out as here. Not just on the body; it’s the mind yer should be worrying about. The two of you alone, away from the entertainment of the city – one of yer is bound to imagine something sinister. Or perhaps the isolation will be enough to make yer go mad. Most can’t seem to handle being alone with their thoughts for so long.” He laughs again as Mr. Blackwood pales, light and airy and slower than would be natural of a chuckle.

The sound scratches at Jon ears as he picks up his case, aching to get off the damned ship. “Pay him no heed, Mr. Blackwood. Merely the ramblings of a lonely old man.” 

They leave the boat with a curt nod. Captain Lukas doesn’t say anything else to them. When Jon looks back, he can see the man gazing wistfully out to see, still sucking the pipe between his lips. Jon can hear Mr. Blackwood’s soft cursing behind him as he struggles to find his footing on the rocks below. He slips on one covered with seaweed, knocking into Jon’s back. Jon scowls, still looking ahead, and breathes deeply in through his nose.

“Oh, Mr. Sims, I’m sorry sir. I wasn’t watching my feet.”

“That much was obvious.”

Mr. Blackwood goes to speak again but must think better when he sees Jon’s face. Instead, he walks a couple of steps behind, struggling less when they get onto the grassy land. The temporary keepers pass them by with a nod which Jon returns indifferently.

“Is what Mr. Lukas said true, about people going mad down here?”

“There _are_ rumours, though most of them have been vastly exaggerated. You should be more worried about starving should a particularly long storm hit than the stories he was no doubt entertaining you with.” Mr. Blackwood doesn’t say anything, seemingly mulling over Jon’s words.

When he looks down, his hands are shaking, and he fumbles to grab a pipe out of his coat pocket. He has to strike the match a couple of times before it lights but soon enough, the smell of tobacco surrounds them. Mr. Blackwood wrinkles his nose.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.” Jon looks at him apathetically. “I mean, you refused the captain’s offer, is all.”

“I’m not in the habit of being indebted to others, especially to someone of the likes of Mr. Lukas. I’ve heard some distasteful stories regarding him and though I’m not one to believe in unsubstantiated tavern gossip, I would like not to have the chance to find out if they’re true.”

Mr. Blackwood looks at him before chuckling warmly. “I didn’t think you one to visit taverns, sir.”

When Jon looks at him, he’s wearing a smile. There isn’t a trace of stubble on his face, so unlike Jon’s own. He has long since given up on appearances, not when most of his life is now spent hidden away. Mr. Blackwood must sense his silence. He looks up, the smile fading when he sees Jon’s expression.

“Respectfully, that’s none of your business.” A thick silence hangs in the air and Jon’s attempts at levity by clearing his throat fall short. “But I rarely go, especially alone.”

Mr. Blackwood slows down behind him. When Jon looks back, he can see the man looking out to the ocean, scanning the horizon, then looking over the lighthouse.

Jon still feels the need to clear the air, not wanting the only relations he’s going to have for the year be hostile. “You needn’t worry, for the most part. It really is beautiful out here; you’d do best to just try and enjoy it.”

Mr. Blackwood doesn’t reply for a few moments and Jon thinks the words have gone unheard. He turns to keep walking.

“Yeah. It is.”

* * *

When they reach the keeper’s quarters, Jon points Mr. Blackwood to his room and heads to his own, sighing in relief when he closes the door. The room is scarce and bare, but what does occupy its walls and shelves are his own possessions. A few tattered books sit upright in the shelf, along with some personal papers and letters. There’s a chipped mug on the desk, gift from Georgie when Jon was still prone to staying up all hours of the night studying. Nothing’s been moved, nothing changed while he was away except for a light film of dust that collected over his belongings. The previous keepers had both stayed in Mr. Blackwood’s current quarters upon Jon’s insistence which they reluctantly agreed to. They were there a mere week, leaving them little room to bargain.

Mr. Blackwood knocks on his door what seems minutes later, and Jon knows he opens with a scowl. He’s carrying two mugs of brown, steaming liquid, though Jon isn’t sure if the colour is from the residue in the mugs or what he’s being served. He looks at it, eyebrows raised and door half-open which he hopes sends the message that Mr. Blackwood isn’t a welcome guest. His room feels like that – a constant in his life that he can count on even with the change in hands from time to time. It’s a safe room he can hide in, no matter the storms wailing outside or the persistent change he sees in every street he turns down while visiting the mainland.

“It’s just tea, Mr. Sims. Ain’t nothing scary about it.”

Jon’s frown deepens but he wordlessly takes the mug outstretched in Mr. Blackwood’s hand. They stay like that a moment, Mr. Blackwood looking expectantly for some words to be exchanged and Jon staring reticently at his feet, lips pursed.

Mr. Blackwood must understand the signal eventually, though Jon thinks it takes far too long for him to get the message. Their work together hasn’t even started but Jon already has low hopes for the next year. He feels exhausted, in a way he’s far too used to but that doesn’t stop the bone-tired feeling nestled deep in his chest, like a hot iron that seems to burn him from the inside.

When Jon shuts the door and sits heavily on the bed – checking the clock above the dresser – it’s been almost two hours. The light outside is fading, sending shadows flickering throughout the room. Jon’s arms are half covered by it, and he almost gets lost in the way his scars are accentuated by the light before he remembers the steaming cup of tea in his hands. It burns his skin, seemingly becoming part of Jon’s flesh like an extra appendage, though it’s a welcome comfort. It isn’t winter yet, but the island is never free from the howling winds of the ocean.

When he considers it, Jon thinks it odd that Mr. Blackwood is in possession of tea leaves. The beverage is an expensive one, something he wouldn’t expect Mr. Blackwood to be in the habit of partaking in. It doesn’t seem to suit his image, attending some lunch surrounded by individuals whose only job is to waste their days away lavishly. But seeing Mr. Blackwood half wrapped up in a sweater that hangs loose on him, hands wrapped around a mug holding tea, it seems like the only way Jon can picture the man.

And though Jon would love nothing more than to spend his days on the island thinking and mulling over every part of the world that doesn’t quite make sense to him, he knows he has a duty, and, if others are to be believed, quite an important one at that.

So he gets up, despite the lead in his legs and drowns the rest of the tea, water scalding enough that he can barely taste its contents. He goes to leave the safety of his room before thinking better of it and grabbing a second coat. He’s a thin man; he always has been – all gangly limbs and cheek bones that protrude too far, but the physically taxing work has left him thinner than he’s sure is healthy. The island weather doesn’t help, either, with the ever-present chill that never seems to leave his body, though he’s mostly used to it by now.

Mr. Blackwood is sitting outside his quarters, drinking tea whilst feeding one of the cows sticking its head over the make-shift fence. Jon feels a frown form on his lips again before sighing and heading over. He doesn’t want to talk to the man; he would be more than happy not having to speak with him at all. If the duties could be handled by one person, Jon would be more than happy to man the island himself. It sounds idyllic, all that space there for him alone.

Jon’s footsteps on the broken ground give him away and Mr. Blackwood’s surprise lasts a single moment before breaking into a shy smile. The hand by his side holds half a dry biscuit and the cow eyes it eagerly.

“You didn’t tell me the cows were so friendly. You named any of them?”

“No.” Jon says tersely, “And they’re here for feeding us, not to waste our food on.”

The smile on Mr. Blackwood’s face seems as if it’s about to falter, and at the sight, Jon feels a wave of guilt break through him before quickly expelling it. It’s not as if he wants to spend his time yelling and barking out orders, but the rations are there for emergencies that unfortunately happen all too often. Jon tells him so, “There’s a reason we keep rations, Mr. Blackwood, and I assure you, it’s not to befriend the cows. Should a storm occur, and our crops are destroyed, or the animals killed, we have these as backup. The cows get by fine with the land we’re living on.”

Mr. Blackwood’s face twists into that of concentration and Jon only hopes he won’t be forced to have this conversation again. “Has that happened before? I mean, the animals being killed by a storm?”

“Not often, no.” Jon hesitates for a moment, weighing the options he has, “A few, though, or I wouldn’t be so insistent about it.”

Jon still wakes up feeling anxiety curl in his gut when he hears the sounds of relentless rain pounding against the tin roof. As much fulfillment the island gives him with its cold solitude, it’s also taken much from him, pieces he knows he can’t get back. He’s never been able to get his body back to its healthy weight since staying on the island and he thinks himself a more paranoid person than he ever used to be. He doesn’t have anyone to talk about it with; his circle of acquaintances is limited and his friends, even more so. But more importantly, he doesn’t know _how_ to talk about it, and, as a result, he represses unpleasant emotions and pushes them down until they’re something he can almost forget. Because that’s all he knows how to do.

Jon doesn’t know how long it takes for him to gather his surroundings again but when he does, Mr. Blackwood is looking at him. He nods, easing the tension in Jon’s shoulders a little.

“I’ll set up the fish pots for tomorrow and get started on dinner. Fetch some firewood, would you? I doubt the keepers left much when staying so short an amount of time, if any.”

Mr. Blackwood goes to say something but Jon leaves before he can do so, the whole interaction leaving him shaken. He was right, about never wanting to speak with Mr. Blackwood again. The thought of sharing the approaching meal with him makes Jon’s stomach churn and he tries not to think about all the days ahead he has to make it through.

Instead he tries to busy himself, cooking them a modest meal with potatoes and some salted beef. He adds what little spices they have still opened, not wanting to make a start on those he picked up in town.

Mr. Blackwood knocks on Jon’s door for the second time that day, not an hour later. He’s carrying a load of firewood and his hands are splintered and bloodied. Jon can’t help himself feeling angry at the sight because they won’t last long if the man can’t even take care of his own health. If Jon were a betting man, he’d guess Mr. Blackwood had never picked up an axe before promptly shutting off those thoughts. He doesn’t want to get to know the man, nor is it any of his business.

Clicking his tongue, Jon throws a bandage Mr. Blackwood’s way who replies by way of a small sound of surprise.

Several minutes go by with the only sound accompanying them being the boiling water and the soft ticking of the clock that seems louder in the silence. Mr. Blackwood speaks up, much to Jon’s displeasure. It’s something he’s noticed about the man; he can’t seem to sit in silence around other people, as though there needs to be a constant stream of words.

“It smells good. The meal, I mean, not your…” He trails off and when Jon looks over, he can see a pink flush on the tips of his ears. The sight makes Jon’s own cheeks feel red, though he tries to will it away. Mr. Blackwood clears his throat, resolutely ignoring what he previously said. “I’ve never been great at cooking. Actually, I’m pretty hopeless. I guess I just don’t understand the fundamentals, or whatever you’re adding now, uh, spices?”

The admission of truth annoys Jon more than lying would have. “It seems you’re not very competent at many things.”

Mr. Blackwood doesn’t answer and when Jon looks back, he can see a frown pulling at his lips. Jon feels a pang of guilt again but mostly, he just feels tired – exhaustion running deep through his body. He not sure it’s ever really left him, even when he was a child. There’s always been that tiredness, that flinching as a response to people trying to touch him.

He serves the plates with more added force than necessary, the irritation boiling under his skin after his conversation with Mr. Blackwood. He sits down, not waiting for the man to join him.

The food is dry, falling apart like sawdust in his mouth though he can’t find it in himself to care much about taste. He used to, Jon’s sure, though that was a long time ago when he still felt human. He’s not sure he’s much of anything, anymore, and each year, he grows more and more agitated by anyone but himself. It’s a selfish thought, he knows, but that doesn’t stop it from burrowing into his head.

Mr. Blackwood lasts a few minutes in silence, the sounds of their chewing ringing throughout the room. Jon wishes Mr. Blackwood had taken his plate and left, though now that he’s sitting at the table, Jon can’t find it in himself to send the man away. He’s far too tired and not desiring to make relations worse, he resigns himself to a dinner in silence. He wouldn’t mind it, the quiet has never bothered him but the island is never still, anyway. There are always gulls flying overhead, or the distant sounds of cattle. The waves always wash against the rocks, and, with nothing to break the wind, the sound of air rushing past the windows is constant.

But Mr. Blackwood starts fidgeting after the first minute and open his mouth on the third. His eyes land on what Jon knows is the Bible laying at the bottom of his bookcase, a thick layer of dust present after months of being untouched.

“Are you a godly man, Mr. Sims?”

Jon looks at him, wondering if he should answer. He hopes some small talk will help the time pass quicker, leaving Mr. Blackwood satisfied enough so he doesn’t extend his stay after finishing the meal. 

“The Bible was a gift, but I’m unsure of my feelings on the matter. It seems,” he falters, not knowing entirely how to explain his relationship with faith, “too easy.”

Mr. Blackwood’s eyebrows raise. “ _Too easy_? What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I suppose it’s how people treat it, really. I’m undecided if the Lord is real but I’m not entirely sure that’s what matters.” He looks to Mr. Blackwood, checking to see if he seems uninterested though the man appears enraptured by Jon’s every word. Jon clears his throat, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the undivided attention he hasn’t had for such a long while. “I mean, what matters, really, is how people use it. They pour out prayers which make them feel better about the situation they’re in and blame temptation when something goes wrong. It’s… a convenient excuse, I suppose.”

Mr. Blackwood doesn’t reply, eyebrows now furrowed in concentration. Mostly out of convenience, Jon asks, “And you, Mr. Blackwood, are you a pious man?”

A laugh escapes from Mr. Blackwood, much to Jon’s surprise. “I’m your hand, Mr. Sims, you can just call me Martin.” He doesn’t say anything more, seemingly waiting for something. It takes a few moments for Jon to catch onto.

“Right… Martin. Are you religious?”

Martin smiles, though Jon hasn’t a clue why. He’s never been good at reading people and although he’s already found out more than he wanted about Martin, there is much he still doesn’t understand, especially his desire to talk to Jon which goes past mere curiosity or simply filling up awkward silence.

“I am, very much so. I think my mother contributed to that.” He hesitates, looking up to meet Jon in the eyes, “We would… always go to church. It was a small one; only ever housed a couple dozen people at its peak. But my ma, she was devoted, both to God and the church.”

Jon nods in response, chewing slowly on a piece of salted beef. Martin doesn’t continue, the conversation petering out naturally. He doesn’t try a different topic and they eat the rest of their meal in silence. It’s a different type of quiet, though, more natural; the air doesn’t feel thick with tension or an uncomfortable energy.

Martin gets up to clear the plates away, the sounds of ceramic clinking against one another filling the air for a brief moment before silence washes over them again.

“So, do- do you want me to take the first shift?” Jon stares at him blankly, his mind not quite processing what exactly he’s alluding to. “You just look tired, is all. I thought I could take the first shift if you needed to catch up on sleep. Though I’m not entirely sure how to work the light so that may not work, but I’m sure I could figure it out. Or maybe you could show me, just quickly, I mean. It can’t be that hard, right? It’s just lighting the lamp and making sure it stays on the whole night. Or, I think, at least. I’ve never actually used one, but you probably guessed that.”

He’s rambling, and Jon’s tempted to see how long he can entertain himself with his own voice but feels himself grow frustrated after a minute of it. “No, Martin, I’ll take the night shifts. I don’t… sleep well, anyway. I’ll just catch a few hours during the mornings.”

“Oh, if you’re sure?”

“Yes. Quite. And I’m afraid it’s more complicated than you’ve led yourself to believe.”

Martin leaves not long after and Jon’s glad for the space he’s been given to breath. Martin’s suffocating to be around, all soft edges that make Jon feel at once frustrated with his own inability to talk and irritated by Martin’s persistence to get him to do so.

Jon gives himself a few moments to breath before taking what he needs and heading up the stairs to the lantern room. The wind whips his coat once he leaves the safety of his cabin, the breeze already picking up as the temperature drops and night sets in.

And when he makes it to the top, stairs creaking under his weight, he allows himself a small smile.

* * *

Jon notices it over the next week: the lamp in Martin’s cabin will flick on and off at seemingly random intervals. Sometimes, it’s only for a few mere minutes but on other occasions, it can be half the night.

There are no curtains or lace covering the glass panes of the cabin, meaning every time Martin lights the lamp, it irradiates not only the interior but the space outside the window. There’s a gull there, now, wings tucked in and seemingly resting in the warm light of the lamp. Jon can see everything from atop the lighthouse: both cabins, the rocky garden where plants struggle to survive and the cows sleeping for the night inside their enclosure.

The golden glow illuminating from the cabin sets the silhouette of Martin pressed against the backdrop of the bedroom he’s made home. Jon can’t see his face, though he understands the flick of the wrist that indicates writing. Martin appears hunched over, head nearly touching the desk from what Jon can tell. The lamp light flickers and sways, sending shadows dancing across the wall and onto the dirt outside.

He tries not to stare, and although Martin hasn’t done anything questionable, he feels a little voyeuristic for having the view he does. But he doesn’t tell Martin; he’s not entirely sure why. It would be so easy to let the man know so that he might string up a sheet to cover it at night. He tells himself it’s to keep an eye on Martin: he’s unsure, really, of his motivations. Usually, Jon thinks himself quite good at capturing why, exactly, people choose to move all the way out here. At first, he thought Martin on the run from something, though every time he tries to think of a crime that would warrant abandoning the city life, he sees Martin’s face and doubts himself. He doesn’t think Martin could be a fugitive, not with his soft hands and the way he flinches at the fish Jon pulls up from the pot; thrashing wildly and unable to breathe.

And every time, when Martin gets up in the morning to bring Jon a cup of tea before he tries catching a few hours of shut eye, he sees Martin’s hands covered in ink stains; clothes with blotches of black and blue almost the same colour as the mottled skin under Jon’s eyes.

It’s an odd feeling, and Jon can’t exactly say whether or not he likes the thought of someone else thinking of him. He imagines it awfully troublesome, to not be focusing on your work – too distracted by wondering if someone else is uncomfortable. Though, if that is Martin’s reasoning, it would surely explain the lack of quality in his work.

* * *

The storm finally blows over, cabin windows left shattered and the inside of each a mess of torn paper and shards of glass. Jon goes to fetch a broom from the supply shed outside when he hears a snivelling sound. It’s Martin, of course, hunched over by the shelter in the cow pen. Jon walks over, already knowing what it is he’s going to see. Martin’s petting it, tangled hair of the dead cow laying on the ground intertwining between his fingers. Its eyes are black and glassy, and Jon’s not sure how it died at first glance but that doesn’t really matter. It’s dead, and Martin has taken it hard. They haven’t killed any of the livestock since they arrived, content with living off the milk they produce and seafood, among the vegetables and other non-perishable goods they stock. And Jon’s lost livestock before, lost far more than a single cow but the red-rimmed eyes of Martin when he looks up at Jon makes him reconsider his words.

He wants to tell Martin to leave, that he’ll carve and salt it before the flies and gulls take hold. But instead he just tugs on the fabric of Martin’s sweater, where it gathers by the elbow and leads him away to his own cabin. Tea is out of the question; they can’t start a fire until everything has been cleaned up. But he does allow Martin a few minutes with his back turned, trying to afford some privacy, before attempting to speak to the man, though he doesn’t look Jon in the eyes.

“We have to start cleaning up, Martin. In a couple hours’ time someone has to go up and man the light.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, though Jon catches a small nod. He wants to say more, to give some reassurance but he doesn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t sound like faux grievances. So he leaves, hesitating at the door before making a start on his own cabin.

Before Jon is due to start his shift, Martin knocks on his door. Jon has mostly cleaned up, books back on their shelves and the miraculously still functioning clock hung back on the wall. It has survived far more storms and wreckages than Jon thinks possible, though he must admit it’s a comforting presence.

Jon doesn’t start, because he knows whatever comes out of his mouth will make Martin feel worse. Jon’s always known – always been told – that he just wasn’t designed to be able to comfort; to give soothing words that make a person hurt less. His words are sharp and dense and far too clipped, so he waits until Martin speaks first.

“We should bury her, before the birds get to her. I know you’ll say we should... make use of her,” he grimaces at the words, “but I just- I _can’t_ do that Mr. Sims. I just couldn’t. She deserves more than that.”

Jon sighs before realising the weight of it. Martin visibly deflates and as much as Jon thinks it a waste, he finds himself reluctantly agreeing.

“Fine, Martin. Fine. But I have to get the light started so if you want to bury her tonight, before the rot starts, you’ll be digging the grave yourself.” Martin frowns at the callous words, but Jon thinks him lucky that he agreed to the ordeal in the first place. “This doesn’t relieve you of your other duties, though. I’ll still need you to complete those. And bring some extra oil up, would you? I think we’re running low.”

Martin nods, eyes still red and the sheen of the tear tracks coating his cheeks reflected in the light of the setting sun. “Of course,” then gives Jon the hint of a smile, “thank you. For this”

Jon mulls over those words, wondering why Martin thanked him. Even when the door closes and Jon’s left in silence, his own thoughts the only company he’s given. He watches the door, as though it holds some hidden answers he’s not yet aware of. It doesn’t, of course, though he spends minutes staring at it, nonetheless.

When Martin brings the lamp oil up an hour later, Jon notices his nails. Where he expects them to be grimy with dirt and manure, he sees that they’re bitten to the point of blood in some places, the cuticles eaten away. He must spend too long staring because Martin notices and promptly tugs his hand away. He asks if there’s anything else Jon needs him to do before he retires. Jon says no, as long as the cows have been properly fed and the rations checked for moisture.

He notices the quiet, after Martin leaves, and although it’s not uncomfortable, it is deep; a profound silence that blocks the rest of the world out.

He busies himself setting the light up, spilling more oil than he usually does. It’s the same that night as it has been the past month. Jon tends to the light, making sure it doesn’t flicker out. He listens as distant ships grow nearer before passing them by; the sound of the foghorn lingering in the breeze. There’s a thick moisture in the air that night, the first after a storm. Martin is clearly shaken by the death of the cow, but it hasn’t seemed to sink in that one or both of them could have died. It’s certainly not a common occurrence but Jon has had more close calls than he’d like and heard too many stories to feel comfortable with their recent experience.

Martin’s cabin is dark for the first portion of the night but flicks on in the early hours of the morning. His figure doesn’t go straight for the desk this time; it’s not hunching over, hand struggling to keep up with his mind. He just paces, pausing in the middle of the room, spine locked in a posture so rigid it’s as though his back is about to snap, before continuing to walk again. Jon watches, mesmerised, in a certain way. He thinks it must be merely a symptom of his boredom, something he doesn’t often feel. But he does feel some guilt gnawing at the inside of his stomach. And then he sees Martin by the window, a silhouetted outline. It takes him a moment to realise Martin might be looking out, perhaps right at Jon and the feeling only intensifies. He tears his eyes away, checking on the light though he knows it doesn’t need any attention.

While he’s checking inventory, he notices the lack of drinkable water and feels his throat go dry at the thought. He thinks the air would do him some good, wondering if the light is messing with his mind; that this may be the day he starts losing it, going down the inevitable spiral that takes his sanity with him. The psychoanalysts researching the subject share a collective agreement that being so isolated must have some negative effect they’re not yet aware of. The sailors, too, warn against docking on some islands and even the keepers themselves have horror stories to share.

When he passes the smaller cabin on the way to his own, he can see Martin through the grimy window: forehead pressed against the glass and his hot breath fogging the pane. Martin’s eyes are squinted shut and eyebrows creased, almost as though he’s in pain. His mouth hangs open, slightly, and Jon can imagine the quiet moans escaping his lips. The sight makes his stomach lurch like the waves crashing against the jagged rocks at his back. He turns away, feeling at once sick and impossibly guilty; scared to be seen by Martin in such an intimate moment. He hurries back up the stairs, forgetting the water and resolutely looking anywhere but down at the earth and dirt below.

When Jon stares out at the water, he sees the small waves lapping over each other, the moon hanging in the sky as if by a thread. It looks abnormally large, tonight, and though there’s no scientific basis for it, he wonders if the astrologists selling readings in dingy tents could be right; the stars and planets have some profound effect on one’s mood. His heart races, thoughts feeling miles ahead of him and although he tries to think about it rationally, his mind doesn’t let him. He knows the action normal, but he can’t seem to stop the shame that rises within him at the scene he just witnessed.

The next morning, Jon knows he looks more worn out than usual. Martin asks if he’s feeling well and Jon merely nods, trying to put some distance between them.

* * *

Martin notices. He must do. Because as much as Jon thinks him incompetent at the tasks he’s been set, Martin has an impeccable grasp on human emotions, noticing every change in Jon’s attitudes, and usually adjusting accordingly. He finds it astonishing, just how quickly Martin seems to have fit himself into Jon’s daily life. Jon still finds himself feeling irritated and frustrated when Martin fails to do seemingly simple tasks and does wonder just how he was given the position in the first place. But as much as it sometimes pains him to think, he’s more glad Martin is here than hundreds of miles away, and that has to count for something.

So Martin notices, and leaves Jon be for the first couple days. Jon’s had moments like this before; he knows he’s not an easy man to deal with. But whilst Jon’s been busy in his own head, he doesn’t notice the signs: the ragged breathing even before starting strenuous activity, blanking out in the middle of Jon talking to him, and pale complexion. Jon doesn’t notice until Martin doesn’t get up one morning, knocking on Jon’s door to hand him a cup of tea, or giving the greeting he never fails to deliver.

He finds it odd but rationalises that Martin must be busy with something else, despite the unbroken morning routine they both seem to follow. Before going to bed, the sun beginning to rise and spread its rays across the paddock to wake the cows, he knocks on Martin’s door, just lightly – just to see if he’s awake.

It’s silent for a couple of moments before he hears a slight crash distinctly coming from inside the cabin and he turns the knob, letting himself in.

Martin’s on the ground, tangled up in sheets. The books that were presumably sitting atop the small table lay strewn around him and a chair sits on its side. When he looks closer, Jon can see a sheen of sweat coating Martin’s forehead, his skin pale and laden with beads of sweat. He looks dazed, eyes struggling to focus on any one object inside the cabin.

“My God, Martin, are you quite alright?”

Martin visibly shudders, opening his mouth to say something before audibly swallowing and trying again. It comes out uneven and raspy, eyes unable to make contact with Jon’s own. “Sorry, Mr. Sims. I just- I don’t think I feel up to it today: everything seems a little… hazy, I suppose.”

“Christ.” The word slips out without warning. “You must be running a fever. We should, uh- we should get you back into bed.”

Martin must hear him because he seems to slump where he’s sitting haphazardly against the bed, mumbling in agreeance. It takes a considerable amount of effort on Jon’s part to lift Martin onto the bed. He ends up half dragging, half lifting the man, but considering their difference in stature, Jon doesn’t think much of it.

Martin groans, obviously trying to get some words out into the air between them. Jon places the back of his hand on Martin’s forehead. It feels far too hot and clammy, coming away damp with sweat. When Martin looks up at him, his eyes are glassy; dishevelled appearance making Jon more worried by the minute. He knows what to do; he’s treated himself more times than he can count. But the direct action he can take is frustratingly small: he scrounges around for a sponge, heating up some water and wiping it gently along the parts of Martin’s skin that are exposed. Martin continues murmuring deliriously and Jon doubts if he could hear the words, they would make sense anyway.

And when Jon goes to leave, he feels Martin’s hand brush against his and tries not to shudder at the unexpected contact.

There isn’t a stove in Martin’s cabin, merely a fireplace where a kettle sits next to it. So Jon walks hurriedly back to his own, trying quickly to make a passable broth. He tastes it, plain, but knows an overload of flavour would go down worse. Martin still hasn’t fallen asleep when Jon makes it back, bowl of broth in hand. He’s glad for that one, small mercy, not wanting to wake Martin if he managed to fall asleep.

“Jon? I thought- I thought you left. Why’d you leave?” Jon doesn’t know how to respond, throat dry when he hears Martin call him by name, practiced, as though he’s whispered it before. It all suddenly feels too familiar – an intimacy they shouldn’t share but somehow have created together.

Jon manages to string some words together, voice cracking as he starts. “You’ve got to eat something, Martin. It’s not too appetising but it’ll do you some good.”

Martin sighs, trying to sink further into the mattress. There are a few holes where Jon can see feathers poking through, something they’ll need to fix when Martin gets better.

“’M not hungry, really… you should eat it instead.”

“I’m not the one running a fever.”

“But you’re too skinny. Have you really been eating enough?” Jon doesn’t answer, looking around the room for something to catch his attention. There’s always that lingering guilt just under the surface of his skin, waiting for an opening to pour out. It’s the guilt over Georgie, that she always deserved better than him, or that he didn’t go to his grandmother’s funeral; every time he visits the mainland, his mind urges him to visit her gravestone, but his feet never carry him in the right direction. And now, it’s that gnawing guilt in his stomach that even on the brink of delirium, Martin’s first thoughts are of him.

It a slow process and more broth spills over the bowl than Jon thinks makes it into Martin’s mouth. Each time Martin says he can’t take another sip, Jon pushes him for just one more. Martin stops responding, after a while, and Jon can hear the quiet, uneven breaths of a fitful sleep begin. There’s still more than half of it left in the bowl but Jon sees it as a success.

He stays there the whole day, sitting on the floor, back against the wall and catching moments of rest before waking to the sound of Martin groaning. He’s used to little sleep, though the lack of it makes his bones ache.

Occasionally, he’ll heat up some more water, pouring it into a dish and soaking the sponge in it. It’s almost embarrassing how tenderly he wipes Martin’s arms and forehead, patting them gently down with a dry cloth, though he figures the memory will slip Martin’s mind once he expels the fever from his body anyway. Each time he cleans Martin’s skin, he watches, frustratedly, as the beads of sweat reappear, dripping down like tears. And he thinks some of the moisture may be tears with the way Martin cries out and shudders in his sleep, enduring some invisible nightmare Jon unaware of.

On the floor, by the bed, Jon can see a small slip of paper, yellow and creased. He knows he should leave it but from the position he’s in, Jon can see black handwriting staring back at him. Jon has always been too curious for his own good, prying into matters and affairs that haven’t the slightest to do with him. Georgie had said it, along with his roommate at Oxford and his associates at the institute. He has this innate need to know, not about anything specifically but merely to just collect information.

So he picks it up, hands trembling, though he’s unsure from what. He reads over it, Martin asleep behind him, once, then twice, not fully able to process what he's seeing. It belongs to Martin – was written by Martin; that much is clear. The prose suggests poetry of some kind, though it’s not written in any formal manner: freeform, Jon thinks. He reads it a third time.

What with these desires, I could eat him whole,

Swallowing every piece he has to offer before

Dousing myself in oil.

My, what a sight:

Surrounded by a halo of flame.

It’s dated a few years back, written in a small scrawl, as though the writing itself was scared to be discovered by prying eyes. But the words were clearly practiced, like Martin had written them upon every surface of his room before that single sheet of paper. He imagines Martin like that, hunched over a table late into the night, surrounded by light from the stub of a candle and writing the same sentences over and over – waiting for them to come alive and make sense.

Although Jon doesn’t think it good, by literary standards, the thought of Martin writing it, tear stains littering the page, causes his breath to stutter. He takes a deep breath, holding it in and clutching the paper tightly. Because he’s different, he always known, but he’s sure it must be similar for Martin. He thinks of his own experiences, how broken he felt – still feels – and how impossibly alone he is because of it.

He tries to think of the man Martin addressed it to, what he looked like, what his occupation was, if he ever received it. He can only speculate, of course. It occurs to him instantly what a daft idea it was for Martin to write, much less keep, such an incriminating piece of paper. It’s foolish, considering the punishment for such an offence; people are imprisoned for less. But looking at Martin’s pained expression, mouth open and lips chapped, he can’t bring himself to think of the man as inane, even in spite of his incompetence when it comes to the simple tasks he’s given.

As though a wave is crashing into him, he feels like he has a deeper understanding of Martin; one he vehemently denied wishing to know upon their first meeting on the docks. It’s odd, the way that desire to know him, fully, wells up inside him.

Jon can still hear the heavy breathing from Martin, quiet, incoherent mumbling leaving his lips like the prayers his grandmother used to whisper when she thought Jon asleep. She was an astute woman, strict, but dinner was always on the table and she never lay a hand on Jon’s flesh. Whilst Jon though himself lucky, surrounded by stories from children in the school yard of the scars they bore from drunken fathers or mothers in grief, his grandmother never hugged him; never caressed his cheek when he was hurt. She never held him after nightmares, the remnants of which he couldn’t remember – only the feeling of a thousand tiny legs scuttling up his arms, his chest, his neck. He didn’t think it odd, at the time – didn’t think twice until Georgie had reached for his hand and he flinched away. Or when she had introduced him to her family, each relative taking him in their arms as though where he came from didn’t matter. And perhaps, to them, it didn’t. But to Jon, it clung to him like a wet cloth, that feeling of unease gripping him wherever he went.

He places the paper down, trying to replicate the position it was in but figuring Martin won’t notice anyway. He places the paper down, crawling over to Martin and laying a hand on his forehead. Moisture still clings to it like morning dew on the blades of grass in the paddock, but he doesn’t take his hand away. The skin under it is hot and clammy; Martin looks unbelievably pale and fear clutches Jon violently. He doesn’t know where the feeling comes from. He wasn’t sure he was still capable of an emotion so intense, but he starts whispering his own nonsense at Martin.

He tells him: “there’s too much food for me” and “you have to collect your pay” and “the cows will be lonely without you”. They’re daft words; words with no real rhyme or reason but Jon feels as though he has to keep talking lest he freeze up. And Jon’s not sure how he forms the words on his lips – he’s not sure if they reach Martin’s ears but he must spend hours repeating them, voice turning hoarse and rough.

* * *

Martin’s fever breaks in two days’ time. Jon has barely slept, leaving Martin only to tend to the light each night or return to his own cabin to cook some variation of broth he has the ingredients for. Martin dutifully drinks down what he can, only managing a few spoonsful of it before retching and resting his head back down. Jon tries to occupy himself with reading or writing new entries in the logbook but every time he gets started, his mind becomes distracted, making any task at hand impossible. He takes to pacing, until his legs nearly give out, but pointedly doesn’t look at anymore of Martin’s papers scattered around atop his desk.

When the fever does break and Martin starts eating the vegetables sitting at the bottom alongside the broth, Jon feels himself relax. Every muscle in his body aches and he swears he can hear his bones creaking from the pacing. Martin continues sleeping but starts staying awake for longer, eyes able to focus on Jon’s own and every time they do, Jon feels relief flood through him.

It’s still a feeling he isn’t used to; that of wanting Martin to be all right – for him to still have a presence around the island. Jon’s not sure where it came from or if it had been there, resting under his skin, for a while. It’s been months since he last thought of Martin as incompetent, since he found Martin’s rambling more annoying than charming.

Jon falls asleep, accidentally, and when he wakes, Martin is half slumped against the wall at his back; covers up to his waist and hair flat against the right side of his head. He’s looking at Jon, breathing still harsh but regulated. For a second, when everything still appears bleary from sleep and the sun shines through the windowpanes, Jon thinks himself dreaming.

“How long have you been here?”

“How long have you been watching me sleep?”

Martin smiles, gesturing to where he is. “Not much else I can do, is there?” 

By the end of the sentence, he’s wheezing, breathing ragged. But he’s awake, conscious enough to be having such a conversation and that’s enough for Jon’s shoulders to ease.

“I suppose that’s fair enough.” He pauses, rubbing his eyes and taking in the surroundings once again with clear vision. “But you can hardly blame me, either. You haven’t exactly been a great conversationalist, nor in any condition to look after yourself.”

Martin’s face shifts, a grimace making its way onto his lips. “I’m sorry about that, really. How many days has it been?”

“Three.”

“Oh, God. I should get up. You’ve been handling all the duties on your own, haven’t you? Have you even slept?”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Martin. Had you not woken up today, you likely wouldn’t have woken up at all. Get your strength back before you go getting sick again.”

Martin looks at him with something he can’t place. Martin’s always told the truth, to the point where it would quickly get on Jon’s nerves. It’s always an odd sight, seeing something he doesn’t recognise painted on Martin’s face, as though he doesn’t know the man at all.

“Were you worried?”

Jon sighs deeply in irritation. “Of course I was.”

He worries his words were too harsh but when he looks Martin in the eyes, he’s smiling, soft and small. Jon doesn’t understand. The more time he spends around Martin, the more he feels out of his depth, like he’s missing something vital everyone else possesses. He likens it to that feeling of alienation, similar to his experiences at Oxford where everyone came from something. Jon didn’t have that, didn’t have a family to ask favours of or the dean to turn to when his grades weren’t as good as was expected of him.

After a lull in the conversation, Martin speaks up.

“Me too.” He says it softly and Jon’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to hear it. But they’re not outside, their words don’t get lost between the screaming wind and crashing of the waves. The words are trapped within the cabin, closed and contained with nowhere to go but to bounce from wall to wall. Martin looks at him again. “I get worried about you, too.”

A frown pulls at Jon’s lips. “Why would you be worried about me.”

“Have you looked at yourself recently? Not that I’m insinuating you’re unattractive-” Martin’s face grows red, contrasting with the still sickly pallor of his face. “I just mean you look exhausted. You work the light every night – which, by the way, I’m still not sure why you don’t put us on rotating shifts, Jon, I don’t know how to work it, but I can learn.

“My point is, though, I don’t think you get more than a few hours of sleep each day. Don’t think I don’t notice how little you actually sleep during the mornings. I meant what I said before, Jon. You probably need the food more than I do.”

“You remember that?” Jon’s cheeks feel hot. He wishes Martin didn’t remember the words that spilled from his lips because if he didn’t remember that, Jon's fervent whispering would have remained unnoticed. Jon doesn’t want him to ask what he meant while Martin was sick, doesn’t want him to ask why. Because Jon isn’t sure himself; only that he intended every word.

“Yeah.” He looks like he wants to say more but stops himself. At once, Jon wants to both forget the event entirely and pry those unspoken words from Martin's mouth.

Jon coughs, once, and he's sure they both know it only serves to break up the silence that has settled around them. “I best be heading now.”

Martin nods and Jon gets up, rolling his shoulders and bones cracking in protest. Martin looks out the window by the bed; the sun is sinking down creating hues of pink and orange on the skyline. Some of the light seeps through the glass, casting odd shadows around the room. Nothing appears to be the colour it’s supposed to, brown turning gold and white changing to the hue of a ripe peach.

On his way out, Jon says, “Rest up, Martin.”

Martin says, “Take care, Jon.”

* * *

Something wakes him, of what, he isn’t entirely sure. There are gulls just outside, passing the window again and again, rhythmically. One breaks the pattern to land on the windowsill, tapping its beak against the glass. Jon looks over to the clock on the wall, never quite free from the ticking, even in his dreams and the recesses of his mind. It shows the time as six-sixty-two. He blinks. That can’t be right. He looks again but the clock doesn’t change except to show that the time is now six-sixty-three. He watches as the time passes by like that, the hand making its way past each number: once, twice. The sight makes his head hurt, and, deciding his time could be better spent elsewhere, he gets up.

When he steps outside, he finds Martin by his quarters, stacking the coal in piles under the sheet of timber. Martin frowns upon seeing him, wiping back the hair sticking to his forehead with coal-stained hands. Jon produces a handkerchief from his pocket which Martin accepts with a grateful smile.

“Don’t think this excuses you, Jon. What are you doing out of bed?”

“Last time I checked; my mother was dead.” Martin glares at him. “I couldn’t sleep, my head’s been… foggy, lately.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what sleep is for, to help clear one’s head, and all that.”

“I heard too much sleep can make one’s brain turn sour.”

Martin laughs, a light, airy sound he’s grown accustomed to hearing. “Trust me, there’s no chance you’re getting _too_ much sleep.”

The day is bright and sharp, those familiar grey clouds that often paint the sky a dull monochrome absent, leaving only the vibrant blue of a clear day. The scene looks like something from a painting. Jon recalls his days at university, the paintings of classic myths set against a backdrop of sky or ocean littering the halls like stains. He can picture the students, rushing through the halls on their way to class, shoulders bumping against one another without regard for whom they’re knocking into. There was always a rushed atmosphere, every man begging himself to be seen as the more educated, the more worthy of time. No one acknowledged the paintings; no one stopped to appreciate the careful strokes of the painter’s hand.

There’s a warm breeze in the air, causing Jon’s hair to dart in and out of his vision. There’s a streak of black against Martin’s cheek. Jon stares at it a moment too long and a frown forms on Martin’s lips.

“Is there something wrong?”

Jon chuckles. There’s nothing funny about the situation but he figures the warm weather has lifted his spirits some. He’s tired, eyes sore and hard to keep open but he knows going back to bed would do him no good. Not with the sun streaming through the window, painting the room in a golden glow. Everything feels a little too idyllic and Jon feels a sudden pang of fear that something bad will happen. He’s not used to feeling this light, as though there is nothing of real consequence. It’s been a long while since he’s felt without burden, like the weight of the world isn’t crushing him.

Jon's laughing by now; he barely recognises the sound and he’s sure Martin is of a similar thought. He doesn’t feel like he’s inhabiting his own body. It’s as though he’s watching a play about an unfamiliar man who shares his face, merely a spectator of the scene taking place in front of him. Martin’s looking at him, equal parts confusion and wonder. His lips are slightly parted, coated with a sheen of sweat from exertion. And it hits Jon, wholly and fully, that for a short moment, he considers himself happy.

“You have some- on your cheek.” He manages to say after the laughter has died down. Martin smiles at him, sheepishly, wiping at it with the handkerchief still grasped in his hands.

“Thanks.” Martin gives a shake of his head, not towards Jon but seemingly to the air around him. He fiddles, a moment, rubbing at the piece of cloth with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll, uh, wash this and get it back to you.

Jon nods towards him. After a moment, with neither of them left with anything to say, Martin sets back to stacking the coal, leaving Jon standing by the pile of coal sitting beside him. “I’ll go fix us something to drink.”

The tea takes longer than it should to brew; Jon burns his hand, lightly, spilling some tea leaves in the process. He places the water in the kettle, putting it atop the coal stove and heating it to the boil. He puts the tea leaves in, letting them seep before getting distracted by Martin’s unmade bed, imagining unruly hair and bleary eyes. A portion of the water must be lost when he attempts to drain the leaves, but he finishes the ordeal, ending up with two near-full cups of tea. He wonders, before he met Martin, just how he never picked up some leaves from the market out of sheer curiosity, the beverage quickly becoming routine in his day to day life.

When he makes it back, Martin has just finished stacking the rest of the coal. He takes the tea with a grateful smile. Jon waits for him to take a sip, watching as Martin flinches from the still boiling water, poking the tip of his tongue out.

“How is it?”

“Hot.” Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s good Jon, really.”

Jon waits a few minutes in silence before taking a tentative sip from his own mug. “It’s awful, Martin. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Martin makes a noise of protest, grimacing slightly as he takes another sip. “It’s not awful. Maybe a little bitter – you probably seeped the tea too long, which is really a very easy mistake to make, God knows I’ve made the same plenty of times before. See, the trick is pay attention to colour. It should darken significantly but still be translucent – a few minutes usually.”

He looks up at Jon, cheeks colouring. “But I appreciate it, honestly.”

Jon doesn’t say anything in rebuttal. He feels Martin will simply deny whatever else he says. Martin continues to drink and so does Jon, bringing up the cup to his mouth, breathing in, out, and taking a mouthful. It’s nice, mundane, but Jon doesn’t need anything else. He’s tired and only getting older. He doesn’t have friends or family to speak of except, perhaps, Georgie, and no assets to his name bar his few possessions in the cabin. He just needs this: an everyday routine he can grow accustomed to where there are no surprises waiting for him.

When he looks over, Martin’s smiling too, eyelashes thick and fluttering to a close. He looks tired, exhausted, though in a way so different to Jon's own. “You should take a break, Martin.”

“I never thought I’d see the day Jonathan Sims told me to take a break.” There’s warmth and familiarity in his voice and so, Jon doesn’t frown as he’s inclined to at the words. The day is bright and the mood far too light for bitterness. Jon forces himself from letting that melancholy seep out. He wants to be alright; he wants to be well so much it feels like a punch to the gut; like he’s just stepped into a boxing ring. He wants to ask Martin how he can do that, but the words won’t leave his lips.

So he leaves the topic, for now, and only hopes they have enough time. Enough time. He doesn’t quite know what for.

* * *

They’re silent at dinner. The day had been hard, a harsh wind constant throughout and with no reprieve from the weather, they could do nothing but work through it. Both their spirits are low, Martin desperately trying to keep face; a frown not apparent on his face, though that seemingly perpetual smile is absent.

Looking over at Martin, Jon can see the way the salty mist has dried in his hair, shaping it to the side and out of his face. Though the style is unusual on Martin, it gives Jon view to the coarse skin that still holds his lightly splattered freckles. It’s obvious his time near the ocean has hardened his skin; it was inevitable that the ocean aged anyone daft enough to live right beside it – a price to pay.

He’s still obviously handsome, that hasn’t changed. But something has, more than simply his appearance. He holds himself differently, as though he’s found something he was missing on the mainland. He’s less skittish and more sure of his actions. Jon has met plenty of people like Martin throughout his life: people who try desperately to please others, going above and beyond but forgetting their own needs. He was like that towards Jon too, at first, and it’s only been recently that Jon noticed the change, really appreciated it. He’s still nicer than any man Jon’s known, someone so genuinely good that Jon thinks it impossible he’s real. But he’s stopped being so nervous, stopped second guessing his own actions.

Jon knows the same is true of himself, the island has changed him and perhaps that’s because he simply wasn’t made to be under the ever-watchful eye of the public. When he first took the job, small advertisement in the corner of The Daily, he was assigned hand to Mr. Bouchard, a charismatic man whom Jon never understood why became a keeper in the first place. He found the work gruelling and physically taxing, especially for a man of his stature: no room to breathe on such a small mass of land. But it had forced him to confront himself; the things he hated; the things that made him turn away in the mirror. And though Jon doesn’t call himself happy most often, he is satisfied, and he thinks that enough.

But Martin is still lonely, that’s apparent enough. Despite what a talkative man he is, perhaps that reaction to isolate himself is just as ingrained in him as asking for help is to Jon. Perhaps, Jon finds himself thinking, it isn’t anything someone else can fix – can heal. There are inevitably habits so entrenched within people that nothing can change that. Jon isn’t happy but he is trying, desperately, to accept those parts of him. And though he regrets the way he first treated Martin – doubting that Martin would want to confide in him as a result – he hopes, if not him, that the island can provide him some sort of solace.

“Why exactly are you here, Martin.” The words come out sharper than he plans, betraying his intentions. Martin’s eyes snap up to meet his and the gaze makes him falter.

“Excuse me?” Martin sounds half-way between incredulous and affronted. Jon wants to take back the words that just fell from his lips and make them kinder, somehow, in a way he doesn’t know how.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Jon shifts in his chair, trying to find something in the room to focus his gaze on. “I’d just… like to know more about you, I suppose. We haven’t really talked much about ourselves.”

“You’ve never seemed interested.” He no longer sounds offended, saying it with a sad smile: tired. Jon’s aware of how brash he is, how the words tumble out of his mouth without him explicitly thinking them. He wishes he could be gentler, that he had the right words like he knows Georgie would.

“I suppose I’ve never thought it necessary. I-” he cuts himself off, looking to Martin. He’s looking back, face unwavering with some emotion etched into it that Jon doesn’t quite recognise. He resumes staring back at the clock on the wall behind Martin, to the left of his face. He watches the hands roll around in rhythmic succession, each tick announcing a new second before another begins. “I’m not good at words or accommodating other people’s emotions. I’ve been alone most of life which has been, nice, for the most part. This job… people come and go, and I never see most of them again.”

He pauses again, not knowing where to go. The silence lasts a few moments before Martin prompts him. “But?”

“But I’d like to get to know you, Martin. Really know you. Beyond your name or what you did before. You’ve been here longer than I thought-”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I only meant it feels right. Having you here. It’s not a nuisance, it’s far beyond that. I’ve grown accustomed to it, to…” He can’t finish it, though he knows Martin can fill in the missing word.

And Jon doesn’t know what else to say. So he doesn’t say anything. He’s surprised, as it is, that he managed such a coherent speech, though it still feels like he hasn’t been able to express what he wanted. It frustrates him, that he can never seem to clearly say what he wants to. It doesn’t matter how clearly he enunciates each word, when they form a sentence it’s like they’ve been strung too tightly, the thin thread snapping. He fears if he talks anymore, they will only spill out as messy as they are in his head.

Martin is also silent, the only noise filling the room the ever-rhythmic ticking of the clock, beating like a heart, mingled together with the gulls circling overhead and the ocean waves, so vastly different from the rain, though they’re both noises produced by water. It creates a melody that only he and Martin share, a secret so far removed from anyone else that it feels as though it was made only for them to hear.

“My mother’s taken ill.” he says cautiously. “She has been for a while, but it only got worse after my father left. I tried to take care of her myself but… I couldn’t. She wanted to stay in full-time care and, well, I didn’t exactly have a lot to spare, working my old job.”

“Do you regret it? Having to quit, I mean.”

Martin pauses, brows furrowing in concentration. The cup of tea between his worn hands is still half-full, beads of moisture collecting around the inside of the rim, and Jon can smell the fragrance filling the room. His own cup is next to him, finished, the remnants of the undrained tea leaves floating at the bottom. Whereas Jon is prone to finishing the tea as quickly as his mouth allows, Martin always savours his own, swirling it around in his cup and taking small, tentative sips.

“I’m not really sure. I haven’t thought much of it, just busy trying to find something else that could pay for the expenses. But I guess that probably means I don’t miss it.” He huffs a humourless laugh. “I mean, it’s not as though I had many friends. I got along with my colleagues, sure, but I didn’t see them outside work or anything. It certainly wasn’t as taxing as this, but I was never really happy.”

Jon hums in agreement, taking a moment to process it all. It still strikes him, sometimes, that every other person has problems, everyone he sees and promptly disregards, struggling through their own life. It’s odd to think about, and it makes his head spin if he ponders it too long. It’s easier just to pretend that every stranger is just the shell he sees.

“Your mother… how is she?”

“She’s fine. Well, not really. Even with the treatment, the doctors aren’t exactly sure how much longer she has.” Martin’s voice is quieter, now, and everything feels a bit like a dream.

“I’m sorry, it must be painful to go through.”

“She’s my mother,” he says, as though it explains everything. And perhaps it does, and Jon just doesn’t understand. He thinks of his grandmother, the closest he had to a mother and how he used to compare her with the parents of characters he would read stories about.

“She’s my mother.” He says again, trying, Jon thinks, to give it more meaning than just the hollow sounds escaping his throat. “But she never acted like one. I suppose she did before my father left. I can’t be sure, though, I was young. I think she resented me. She would always say how much I looked like my father and at first there was a fondness in her voice. But then she would say it before slamming her door or vomiting into the basin and yelling at me to leave.

“She as the one who introduced me to tea, actually. We never had much, never had enough money, but she would rather skip buying bread than not have tea in the house. She had this teacup, too. It was chipped, made from china that she picked up from an older lady selling it on the streets. It made her feel important, I think, like she was more than a single mother stuck with a child to look after.

“I was allowed to drink it as well. She would make us both a cup and we would sit at the table in silence, pretending there was the chatter of people at lunch around us. The thing is, I didn’t even like it. I only drank it because I knew how happy she was when we were both at the table like that. It got to the point when that was the only time she seemed fine being around me. I know I should resent her more than I do but I just can’t seem to hate her. Even after everything she’s… still my mother. And I don’t think I can ever change that.”

And Jon understands, the best he can, what it’s like living in a loveless household, the cold white of the walls taunting him as he tried to sleep. There was always food on the table, but the house wasn’t warm. Perhaps that was the issue, it was never a home to him, merely somewhere for him to sleep.

“I think I know what you mean.”

“Was your grandmother similar?”

“Yes, I think so. I always thought it was normal for her to never be around; for us to barely see each other even though we lived in the same house. She never raised her voice or laid a hand on me. She was just… absent. I can’t remember a time where she hugged me, or even touched my hand in passing. Sometimes it didn’t even feel like she was there – it was like living with a ghost. But I can’t blame her for that. Her own child died, and I didn’t.”

Jon has to pause, his throat tight and muscles aching after being so tense. He wants desperately to be able to be more open; more vulnerable. He wants to lay every part of himself bare on the cold, wet earth and allow Martin to pick and prod at them until he deciphers who Jon really is. But Jon doesn’t want to voice the words out loud, he just wants Martin to understand.

“But while I was at college, I met someone. She introduced me to her family, and they were so… alive. I suppose that’s the best way to describe them. It was like none of the hardships they went through meant anything to them because they were together. And they saw the same in me, that I was worth protecting. I had never felt that way before.”

Martin nods once, slowly, asking with a sad tone in his voice, “Was she your- were you two together?”

Jon shifts in his chair, throat tightening once again. He tries to swallow around it, rubbing at his throat before clearing it. “Yes. We ended up getting married after I graduated. She was a clerk at the front office but more intelligent than most men in my classes.”

“She sounds wonderful.” Martin still has that sad note to his voice, not quite looking Jon in the eyes. “What are you doing all the way out here, then?”

“I- we’re still married in name, but I don’t see her often. She’s seeing someone else, anyway which is for the best. I hurt her, Martin, and I wish I could take that back, but I can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean to pry.” Martin looks concerned, eyebrows creased, and mouth parted. He takes Jon’s long since empty mug and fills it with the leftover tea in the kettle resting over the fire. Jon can smell it as soon as Martin places it in front of him, the ring from the last mug still burned onto the table.

“You didn’t pry, Martin. I’m fairly certain I told you of my own accord.”

“I just wasn’t aware you were married. I mean, why would I be, we haven’t really talked about our private lives. Not that it’s not okay that we haven’t, I just meant I wouldn’t have guessed you were ever married.” Martin visibly cringes. “I don’t mean that nobody would want to, you know, be with you. You just never seemed to express any interest in that sort of thing.”

“Martin, it’s alright, really, it’s just… still hard to talk about. It wasn’t a good idea in the first place. We both weren’t accepted by our peers and I think that largely impacted our decision. And it’s not as though I’m wasn’t interested in this sort of thing: I did love her, just in a different way that I’m not sure she ever completely understood. She asked me to explain it, but I never could. I’m not sure _I_ even understand it. But she seems happy now, at least, of which I’m grateful for.”

“Do you know the lad?”

Jon looks at Martin, trying to decipher what’s behind his eyes. “It’s a woman, actually. Melanie, I think her name is.”

Martin looks up, directly at Jon with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, before it’s replaced with a thoughtful crease between his eyebrows that seems to be a permanent feature as of late. Jon wants to ask Martin; he wants the man to offer up some information so that Jon might help him. He wants Georgie to keep the happiness she fought so hard to obtain and for Martin to find his own. He wants things to change, that he might dock on the mainland and find that everything has altered so people like them might be happy.

Jon looks back to Martin, just as Martin looks up and they make eye contact. There’s a stray tear running down Martin’s cheek.

“It’s okay, Martin.”

Martin stays quiet for a few moments more, letting out a shaky breath. His fingers twist in between the mug handle before he speaks up again. “I always thought something would change, when I got older. That I’d wake up one day and just be happy or… normal. But I’m not, I mean- I never,” he pauses taking a drink and inhaling deeply through his nose, “I told myself I would have to get married when I came of age, get a respectable job and a wife to look after. But I never did. I don’t think I could. My mother, she’s all the family I have left but it might as well be that I have no one. I send her letters, but she never replies. I’m not even sure if I want her to, anymore, I think I’m just filling some gap.

“There’s no one there for me, which has always been fine – it just makes leaving easier. But I feel like I’ve been in a transitionary period for so long, now. Just waiting for something to build a life around but there’s nothing. There nothing there for me. My job meant nothing; it was just a way to earn a living – didn’t matter what it was. I never had anyone to come home to. I mean, even when I stayed with someone the night, it was a secret: something dirty I couldn’t talk about.”

There are more tears forming in Martin’s eyes, threatening to spill. He looks away, blinking furiously, and Jon forces his own gaze away, trying to give Martin some semblance of privacy. He thinks back to the note he found in Martin’s cabin, the carefully crafted words of a longing for something he thought he could never have. There’s some deep pain in Martin but Jon doesn’t know how to soothe him, how to make it better.

“Sorry, I don’t know if any of that makes sense. I’ve never talked with anyone about it – there was never anyone there _to_ talk about it with.”

“It’s fine, Martin. I’m just- it’s hard, sometimes, to process everything.” Martin nods, sipping his tea anxiously. Jon knows he’s waiting for an answer, anything to indicate Jon may be disgusted with him. But Jon can’t seem to form the words he knows Martin wants to hear, the words he so desperately wants to say.

He feels himself take a breath, hold it, exhale, and repeat. It was something Georgie taught him when the campus inevitably became too loud. He was used to rushing to the nearest empty room he could find, snapping harshly at anyone trying to talk to him. He could spend hours, back against the locked door, just sitting with his eyes closed. Sometimes, when the noise was louder and more insistent than usual, he would cover his ears with his hands like a child. It embarrassed him after he calmed down and unlocked the door, walking through the courtyard pretending the last hour hadn’t happened. He missed far too many classes than he wanted to but every time the professor would ask about his absence, his throat would close up and he would merely apologise.

“I think I understand. Not all of it, but I know what it’s like to feel on the fringes, like you can’t talk to anyone else. I could never give Georgie children; I could never bring myself to… do that with her – with anyone. I’m sure she’s glad about it now but it was hard for her; for both of us. And I know I’m in no position to say this but… you’re not broken.”

It’s like watching the rapids on a river, the way the tears start flooding down Martin’s cheeks. He hides his face in his elbow, moving it back and forth to try and scrub them away. Jon wants to tell him so much more: how important Martin’s become to him, that it’s okay for him to cry. But he’s not sure how coherent any of it would sound, it all feels far too muddled in his head to come out clearly.

Jon reaches out, brushing Martin’s hand that still grips his mug. It takes a few moments, but Martin’s hand starts to grow slack around the cup, fingers tentatively intertwining with Jon’s own. He doesn’t look at Jon, but he does lower his arm, revealing his face with closed eyes. Jon doesn’t talk, doesn’t attempt to say anything more because perhaps all they need to say has been said already, through words and soft touches.

He thinks about those inconsequential actions that have become routine: eating breakfast in Jon’s cabin each morning, Martin making them both cups of tea to share, and the feeding of the cows they have taken to doing together.

He doesn’t think about Martin alone in a city far too big; a city that feels as though it would swallow him without anyone to witness his disappearance. He doesn’t think about the emotions Martin poured out that were rejected by others or him leaving – that their time is nearly up.

* * *

When it rains, droplets pounding against the jagged rocks, it looks as though they’re theatre props. Not minutes after the rain stops, leaving as quickly as it came, the moon shines through the cloud-covered sky and casts its light on the island. Everything looks just a little bit magical in that moment, painted a brilliant shade of silver. The waves are finding their gentle rhythm again while the trees that were previously whipping their branches are swaying in time with the breeze. And there, in the middle of it all, stands Martin, face made paler by the moonlight. The hood of his jacket has been blown back by the wind, rain soaking his hair and pressing clumps of it against his forehead. Drops of water track down his face like tears, and, Jon realises, he’s looking back at him. 

Jon wishes he could reach into the crevasses of Martin’s mind, pulling out every emotion he’s experiencing and feeling them for himself until he understands how Martin sees the world. Jon wonders if they are similar to his own but when he catches Martin’s nervous hands accompanying twitching lips, he knows they are two wildly different people.

But Martin’s face gives away nothing, standing there in the pale white light of the moon; like a mask with the wearer behind it desperately trying to portray some emotion. The lips don’t smile, and the eyebrows don’t furrow like he now knows are characteristic of Martin. Instead, Jon stares into Martin’s blank face, wondering if the anxiety that has seized him affects Martin, also.

Jon thinks he finally understands why he got such a deep sense of loneliness upon first meeting Martin. He thinks Martin must have been rejected and thrown away, time after time: by his mother and the other men he had inevitably been involved with. Day after day, contributing his time and effort into those same newspapers that printed articles of his affliction, the most perverted illness a man could have. And when he had applied for a job so far away, it was as though he was locking himself away for the better of society.

Because that’s the thing about Martin: he pushes himself further and further in an attempt to fix other people. Jon noticed it when he talked of his mother; a disgraced woman who blamed her only child for her husband’s abandonment. And when he talked of his work as an editor, how his co-workers would come to him for help and he would give it to them every time without gaining any support in return.

Martin is good. He’s the type of man who only ever wants to give back to others. But he was the anomaly because most men can’t see past fame and wealth and take what they need to get there. And as Martin pursues his ideals for a better world – one that can never appear, Jon’s convinced – he never gives himself the same care. No one sticks around to fix him, and Martin’s convinced himself he doesn’t need it, because that’s the mask he puts on, the façade he shows to others.

Despite it all, he remains sickeningly optimistic and his virtues never falter.

Jon feels ashamed for the way he treated Martin those first weeks, as though he was the only person experiencing pain. He hates that he may have contributed to the carefully constructed mask Martin clings to, even out here at the edge of the world with no one to speak to for miles except one another.

And when Jon becomes conscious of reality again, the only light hanging high in the sky, he can see the painful, twisted expression Martin’s face has contorted itself into. He looks haunted; he looks scared. Although Jon finally understands what seems like all the mysteries of the world, he can’t fathom how to fix Martin; how he can smooth away all that hardness that’s built itself onto his face, etching deep into his features. Perhaps he can’t and perhaps that’s something he has to live with; something they both have to live with. Because Martin’s not the same man and neither is Jon, but that change may not be entirely bad.

Jon can’t fathom being on the island without Martin, despite the last year being such a small portion of his life. There’s something about waking up in the morning and meeting Martin for breakfast that just feels right; something in the way he smiles and the shadow that covers his face when he forgets to shave. Jon can’t envision what it used to be like, avoiding the hand until dinner came where they would both sit, eating, in near silence.

Martin’s voice is soft, too soft to hear over the ocean because although the wind has died down, there’s a persistent ambient noise that never leaves. It’s not hard to become accustomed to, though Jon wishes everything was silent in this moment; he wishes he could hear Martin’s every breath and the heavy pounding of his heartbeat.

“Jon.” It’s more of a breath, a whisper. He says it like a dream and Jon thinks the sound beautiful. And so, he whispers back, “Martin.” But he’s not sure if the sound travels or gets lost in the wind.

Jon takes a step forward and tries not to hesitate when he sees Martin flinch back slightly. There’s a light rain that’s returned, surrounding the island in mist and making it feel as though they’re the only people in the world. And they could be, this far out. If everyone were to disappear Jon doesn’t think he would care.

The dusting of rain has settled on Martin’s arm, covering the hair in a layer of fine droplets and reflecting the light from the moon. Martin just look at him, neither stepping forward to greet him nor stumbling back and Jon takes it as a sign that he can proceed. He’s not entirely sure what he’s planning to do once he closes the distance because his mind feels far too cluttered, every thought in his brain spinning wildly in every direction. He feels light-headed, too, though he isn’t entirely sure whether it from the cold or because his heart feels as though it will spill out of his mouth if he tries to talk.

So he doesn’t. He takes Martin’s wrist, in what he hopes is a gentle enough manner, and brushes away the hair in his eyes with calloused hands. Every part of his body screams that what he’s doing is unnatural and unfamiliar and Jon thinks it true. He thinks it a possibility that he’s in some other body in some other time; where he’s someone who doesn’t bottle everything up until it feels like it’s going to burst. In this moment, he can pretend he’s a person who can tell others he cares for them, he needs them; he loves them.

But when he looks at his scarred hand gripping Martin’s, he sees the reality of the situation and the impossibility of his dream. He’s not that man.

He looks to Martin who’s now smiling, soft and surreal and Jon knows it’s real. He’s knows it’s genuine and natural and only there for him. The thought makes him shudder. And Martin must see because he shakes his head fondly, sliding his hand into Jon’s and starting towards the cabins. His grip is loose and open and carefree and when they make it to Jon’s door, he invites Martin in, voice soft and sounding as though it belongs to someone different.

“I’d… like you to stay, if that’s quite alright.”

Martin’s still grinning at him in a way that makes Jon’s heart clench. “I’d like that.”

Jon passes him a spare cloth to dry his hair and takes one for himself. Martin’s hand drops from where it was slotted into his own, but Jon's palm remains warm. The fire’s nearly out; Martin shovels more timber while Jon stokes it. It’s nice, domestic, and Jon tries not to feel awkward once the fire has started again. He needs something to do with his hands, something to grab and twist around in his grip.

Martin must sense that because he gets started on tea, having stored some leaves in Jon’s cabin a while before. It’s not long before he produces a mug of freshly brewed tea, the steam of the boiling water rising out of the cup, mingling with the smoke from the fire. Jon accepts it gratefully, fingers instantly twisting around the handle.

“Are you okay, Jon?”

“Fine. Really.” Martin raises an eyebrow and Jon forces down the lump in his throat. “It’s just a lot. Everything is a lot to take in.”

“Should I leave?”

“No. No, it’s not that. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear. I… appreciate you being here. I’m just unsure of what to do.” Jon lets out a laugh, though it’s more like an exhale. He feels like a child, unable to express himself to the adults surrounding him.

Martin places a hand on Jon's shoulder, experimentally. They stay like that a while, both too scared to breathe and break what they’ve created. It’s Martin who moves again, of course, shifting closer to Jon and resting an arm around him. Jon closes his eyes, breathing in the fragrance of both the tea and Martin, shifting nearer. They’re close, sitting side by side but Jon leaves an inch of space between them. Martin seems content to stay like that and as the clock rhythmically ticks by, Jon’s shoulders relax, unconsciously filling in that small sliver of space.

Pressed together like that, Jon loses track of time, the sounds of the clock becoming background noise. All the sounds bleed together, morphing into a quiet droning that barely seems there. It’s easy to block everything else out; the only sound Jon hears in clear detail is Martin and his breathing, stuttering at first before becoming even and rhythmic. Jon lets a hand fall away from the mug he’s grasping with both, laying it palm up on the bed. Martin shifts, the sound of rustling sheets barely audible, before he feels warmth pressing atop his hand. Martin tangles their fingers together, squeezing lightly and Jon can't help but open his eyes. He’s greeted with Martin's own, blue mixing with grey, reminding Jon of a stormy sea. The passion he sees there is almost as overwhelming.

His face is serene, though, one arm around Jon and the other in his hand. Martin's tea is resting on the crate next to the bed and Jon goes to say something about it going cold, but Martin smiles at him. Jon feels sick and weak and happy all at once and he wonders if he could ever get used to the rush of feelings Martin seems to plant inside him.

Jon closes his eyes again, feeling impossibly tired and almost misses the soft curse Martin utters under his breath. He pulls away roughly, causing Jon to spill his tea over his lap.

“Martin, what-”

“The light, Jon.” He barks out a laugh. “I can’t believe we forgot. That’s our only job.”

“Christ, you’re right. We should get up there.”

Martin turns to look at him, face open and displaying that look Jon knows as surprised but amused. “We?”

Jon turns his eyes to the wall, grabbing a dry coat off the hook on the wall. He passes Martin another, holding it up to see if it will fit. “Yes, I suppose it’s something you should learn if you’re to call yourself a keeper. Provided you want to, of course.”

It’s senseless for him to hesitate, to feel anxious in asking Martin to tend the light with him after Martin expressed such interest; after Jon asked him to stay. Regardless, he feels relief when Martin smiles, the grin likely never having left his face.

“Of course. I’d be daft to say no.”

Martin throws a sack of coal over his shoulder before they leave as Jon grabs the can of oil sitting beside the door. They walk side by side, Jon looking over at Martin far too often, afraid a gust of wind will hit, and he’ll disappear. He’s afraid something will happen; that Martin will slip and hit his head and everything they’ve made together will go with him. Jon feels anxious at the happiness he feels but Martin tangles their fingers together, soft hands now worn and calloused against Jon’s own.

The light is flickering but still sending beams of light to the passing ships. They make quick work of rekindling the fire, even in spite of Martin’s lack of knowledge. He’s a quick learner, contrasting against Jon’s initial perceptions of him. Even when he spills the oil, or shovels too much coal, Jon finds it more charming than anything, surprised by his shift in thinking.

When they’re done, backs against the wall and pressed close despite the sweat soaking them both, Martin turns to Jon, letting out a shaky breath. Jon expects him to say something, but he just leans in, pressing his lips gently to Jon’s forehead. Jon doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t pull away like he's used to. He reaches for Martin’s face, grimy hand cradling Martin's cheek, gritty with dirt, and it’s perfect. Jon can feel Martin’s lips twitch upwards and he sighs, softly, against Martin’s neck.

The beacon shines a blinding light spreading throughout the lantern room, projecting their shadows onto the wall. Jon turns his head, resting the side of his face in the crook below Martin’s chin and watches them. He sees two figures, twisted in a warm embrace, flickering around the room in rapid succession – like a moving picture.

* * *

Jon doesn’t know what exactly he feels for Martin, not really. He supposes most people would call it love though the word feels too simple and complicated all at once; a confusing dichotomy that makes his head spin. He’s never been good at expressing his feelings out loud but even in his mind they get twisted and tangled beyond recognition.

So he doesn’t try; not to describe what he’s feeling because he’s not sure it really matters. He thinks it enough that he just feels what he does for Martin: wholly and fully.

He thinks back to the poetry he read, written in Martin’s messy hand. It doesn’t seem right, that desire to eat someone whole who you would give the world to. Jon wants to take Martin’s hand, to press it into his protruding cheekbone and just hold it there. He wants to stay, right where they are, trading pieces of each other but not more than they can handle. Because what’s the point, he thinks, to give yourself away to your lover until there’s nothing left? Jon knows a relationship needs more than one person: self-sacrifice is beautiful only in fiction. Because in reality, Jon wants nothing more than to waste his days away in the company of Martin. He wants nothing to do with the misfortune that plagues literature; they make glamourous stories but to live a tragedy would be a hollow life.

When he looks out, the thick mist surrounding the island is still there, obscuring their view. The only thing that manages to pierce through the haze is the beam from the lighthouse, solid and unwavering. There a chattering from behind him, Martin making small talk with Captain Lukas; an odd parallel from their first meeting. Mr. Lukas is no longer attempting to scare Martin with stories of isolation and insanity but Jon’s still not entirely sure why they get along so well. He would find it concerning if they saw each other more than twice a year, but as it stands, Jon thinks it relatively harmless that they share gossip about the other keepers. He figures Mr. Lukas doesn’t have much opportunity to talk to people often; Jon’s never seen him with more than a handful of people, his crew, most often. But he’s not sure Mr. Lukas would want more interaction, even if he had the chance. There’s a curious sense of solitude surrounding him, though he doesn’t appear miserable by the fact.

The foghorn on the ship blows, indicating their near arrival. As if on signal, Martin steps out onto the deck, standing against Jon with his shoulder pressed against Jon’s own.

“Another year, eh?”

“Unfortunately for you, yes. Another year stuck out here.”

“I can’t think of another place I would rather be.” Jon wants to tease him, but Martin says it with such seriousness he thinks better of it.

“Yes. Well. Don’t do anything daft. I’d appreciate it if we both stayed alive.”

Martin grins at him, teeth showing and his eyes crinkling at the corners. For a single moment, a flash of light shines on him, illuminating his face, before disappearing into the fog once again.


End file.
